


In the Face of Wounds Unknown

by redtailedhawk90



Category: The Room Where It Happened (Podcast)
Genre: Childhood Friends, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Friendship but It's Complicated, Gen, More comfort than hurt, Physical Intimacy, Platonic Cuddling, S2: The Bleed, Spoilers through Ep 46
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-31
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-15 12:15:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29064183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redtailedhawk90/pseuds/redtailedhawk90
Summary: Rowdy and Winnie catch up after a long, long time apart.
Relationships: Owain Evans & Angharad With-Severity-Comes-Grace
Comments: 4
Kudos: 3
Collections: Secret Druids of the Stones 2020 (A Standing Stones Fanwork Exchange)





	In the Face of Wounds Unknown

**Author's Note:**

  * For [warptimeandspace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/warptimeandspace/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Izze](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzeDeer/pseuds/izzeDeer) for seer help in making sure this was coherent!

“Hey, Winnie?”

Owain looks up from where they are buttoning their shirt, a slow sort of smile spreading across their face--the one that always seems to be present when Angharad is around. Leaning against the doorframe, somehow managing to make a sling, t-shirt, and jeans look like high-fashion couture, she shifts her weight uneasily. Like she expects to be turned away. Like she isn’t sure if she’s welcome. 

It hurts.

“Rowdy,” says Owain, trying to force every ounce of warmth they have into the nickname. “What can I do for you?” They gesture for her to come in and sit.

Angharad takes a tentative step forward, crossing the threshold, but pauses at the offered chair.

“I don’t want to bother you,” she says. She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, a nervous habit that Owain thought she’d long grown out of. “If you’re--” Her gaze drops for just a moment to Owain’s chest, to the ragged, angry scar visible underneath their open shirt. “--busy with something.” 

Owain clutches their shirt closed on reflex. It’s a pointless motion--there’s no hiding it now, and besides, it’s not exactly a secret--but they can’t help but feel exposed under Angharad’s fierce attention. She was always so  _ intense. _ Owain had never known her to do anything halfway, or to leave a truth unrevealed. It’s one of the things they love about her, and also the thing that has given them the most trouble over the years.

“Sit down, Angharad,” Owain says firmly, and they wave their hand at the door in a request for the Wyvern to shut it. Angharad jumps when it slides closed, but she finally takes a seat. Owain smiles. “Now, what’s got you on edge?”

For a moment, it looks like she is going to open up. Owain can see the twin, opposing desires warring on her face. It’s been a long time since the two of them were on the same side, and they know what’s going through her mind: it’s hard to tell whether they can trust each other right now. Is this a new start? Or the customary good-natured reunion that has always preceded another betrayal? They hope it’s the former. They want it to be the former. Angharad has helped them out of scrapes a thousand times through the years, but she’s never turned her back on the UPRC. Was it just fear for her life that made her leave?

Angharad’s expression settles into something placid. Owain nods minutely. Not yet ready to tell them the truth, then. 

“With my arm like this, I can’t do my hair,” she says. “Will you help me, Winnie?” 

They both know that Owain’d follow her to the end of the universe and back, if she asked. It doesn’t even bear saying.

Owain grins and maneuvers themself from their chair to their bed, and gets Mads’s help adjusting their legs until there’s space for Angharad to sit between them. “Just like old times, then?” they tease as they pat the edge of the bed. Slipping back into their well-established banter is easy as breathing. “Honestly I don’t know how you’ve been making do without my skills.”

She gets up from her chair and plops herself at Owain’s feet. “I was only ever humoring you,” she lies, arching an elegant eyebrow. “I never needed your help.”

Owain digs their fingers into Angharad’s thick blonde hair, gently combing it out. Her shoulders go rigid, and they pause, allowing her to adjust. How long has it been since she’s let her guard down? It’s been years since she and Owain were able to be together like this, quiet and alone in a private space. Has she had no one in that time? Angharad eases her muscles by fractions, clearly forcing herself to do so. Eventually, she squeezes their calf to signal that they can continue.

“You’re going to have to reach a little higher if you want me to feel that.” Owain means it as a joke to help her relax, but she pulls her hand away as if burned.

“I--I’m sorry, I--”

Owain sighs softly and resumes removing the tangles in her hair. As if remarking on the weather, they say, “It’s been a long time.” The  _ You didn’t know, it’s okay, I’m used to it, _ they keep to themself, but she understands.

“Too long,” Angharad says, leaving off the  _ I  _ should  _ know, it’s not okay, how have we grown so far apart? _ The regret there makes Owain’s heart break. She’s quiet for a long while, the only sound between them the soft susurrus of hair being brushed. As Owain waits for her to say what’s on her mind, they begin a complicated plait, carefully pulling more hair in with deft, quick fingers as they go. Eventually, they hear her intake of breath, and then, “So, did you get open heart surgery before or after your daddy had you disappeared?”

It’s Owain’s turn to go silent. They focus on the pull-twist motion of the plait, grateful for the excuse to hide the shake to their hands. The memory is still sharp--the chaos, the punch of the bullet, the pain. The gaping wound and gasping for air. The fear for Molly and WINTER and Kerry and Pound.

The certainty they were going to die over a couple of cred. 

They breathe in slow. Hold it. Release. “Before. We got into a scrap with The Butcher and his boys, and I took one to the chest. Doc Kerry fixed me up right, though.” They shoot for breezy, but end up somewhere in the vicinity of strained. 

Angharad pulls away and turns to look up at them. Owain makes a sound of protest as the plait falls out of her hair, but the look in her eyes stops them from doing anything about it. Her voice is low and dangerous as she says, “How bad was it.” It’s less a question and more a warning. She already knows the answer. She just wants them to say it themself.

Grimacing, Owain looks away, unable to meet her gaze. “Bad.”

Suddenly she's leaning up to get in their face and gripping their thighs tight enough to bruise. Pain lances up their sides like lightning and they hiss, but Angharad doesn’t let go. Owain watches her jaw flex as she grinds her teeth. “Owain Evans, if you get yourself killed out here in the ass end of nowhere, I swear I will find out how to resurrect you so I can  _ kill you again myself.”  _ She practically spits the words. “Do you understand me?” 

Owain, in agony and breathless, doesn’t respond, so she crawls up to straddle their lap and grip their shoulders. Her face is inches away, and Owain is still frozen in pain, but somehow that doesn’t matter because she’s so close and they can see the dark circles under her eyes and the wetness welling up in the corners. When was the last time she slept? Angharad shakes them. “Do you understand me, Owain?”

“Rowdy,” Owain manages. “Stop. Please. You’re hurting me.” 

Angharad blinks, and then she’s off Owain in an instant. She retreats to the other side of the room, her back to them, hugging herself. Owain clenches their shaking hands and takes several deep breaths to collect themself. In, two, three. Hold, two, three. Out, two, three. Hold, two, three. Again. 

Something cold and wet pushes at their fist: Mads, bottle of painkillers held lightly between his teeth. They force two of the horse pills down with water Mads fetches for them and cling to him for a while as the pain subsides to a more manageable level. When they look up again, Angharad is sniffling and cursing under her breath, punching at the door panel to get it to open.

The Wyvern is having none of it, apparently. Owain makes a mental note to thank them.

“You don’t get to be angry with me,” they say. “Not when I just saved  _ your _ ass from being executed for treason.”

Exhausted by the short outburst, Owain lies back on their bed with a groan, muscles protesting and joint creaking. There’s the click of nails on metal as Mads lies down on the floor next to them. They turn their head to the side to look at Angharad, only to find she’s given up on trying to leave and has slid down to the floor, arms around her knees and head bowed. As they watch, she scrubs at her eyes with the heels of her palms. Something falls into place, then; Angharad never cried when she was angry. She only ever cried when she knew she’d done something wrong.

“I’m sorry, Winnie,” she says softly. She’s fiddling with her hem again. “I just felt--I needed you to--” She pauses, frowns. Starts again. “I’m sorry I hurt you. I won’t do that again.”

Owain considers making a quip about how she’s almost certain to hurt them again, eventually, but they bite their tongue. Now is not the time, and anyway, that’s not what she means. They hold out a hand instead. “Come here.”

It looks like that’s the last thing Angharad wants to do, but she reluctantly obeys. Owain grabs her hand as soon as she’s close enough and pulls her down onto the bed with them in one swift motion. She squeaks at the sudden movement, landing partially on top of them, and then freezes, clearly terrified that she’s hurt him again. When they don’t yelp or pull away, she slowly and carefully arranges herself against their side, one arm thrown across their stomach and her head on their chest, until they’re pressed together from head to toe. Owain reaches up with the hand that’s not around her shoulders to stroke her head, gently carding their fingers through her hair.

“Do you want to talk about it?” they ask.

“No,” she says, breathing wetly. Their shirt is becoming damp where she’s laying against it. Owain hums in acknowledgement and stays where they are, continuing to stroke her head. She’s strung tight as a piano wire, but with every pass of their hand and every beat of their heart, she relaxes a millimeter. Each one is a victory.

Time passes. Eventually, Angharad is breathing evenly and her muscles are loose.

“I should have been there,” she says, without preamble or context. Owain, half asleep between Angharad’s warm presence and the effect of the narcotics, blinks awake again.

“Hm?”

“I should have been there,” she repeats, this time running a finger down the scar on their chest, tracing the bumpy flesh.

Owain swallows and suppresses a shiver. “You couldn’t possibly have known.”

“But if I had--If I had gone with you in the beginning…”

Owain shakes their head and cups her face to stop her from continuing. “There’s no use traveling that road again, Rowdy. We’ve worn the gravel to dust.” They brush a wayward lock of hair back behind her ear, out of her eyes. “What matters is that you’re here now.”

“Yeah,” she says. She shifts so she can look up at them. “Thank you for coming to rescue me, Winnie.”

It’s a little too earnest, and Owain nearly brushes it off, afraid of the depth of the emotion that wells up in their chest. It’s enormous and terrifying. 

But. 

Well. They’re trying to be better about saying things while they still can.

“You’d have figured something out if we hadn’t come along,” they say. “But I’m thankful we could.” There, a safe enough truth that doesn’t feel like dragging their ragged soul out of their chest. Then, because she’s here and she’s safe and they can, they press a kiss to her forehead, lingering for a long moment and breathing the scent of her hair. “I’m so glad you got out,” they murmur against her scalp. Linking their free hand with hers, they kiss her knuckles, too, and don’t even hide their sigh of contentment when she snuggles closer. 

The Wyvern dims the lights. Owain taps a rhythm against the back of Angharad’s hand with their thumb. Tap brush tap tap. It’s an old habit, and one they shared with Angharad before anyone else, when they were just kids hiding under the bed and Owain’s daddy had too much to drink.

“Love you too, Winnie,” Angharad breathes, and Owain holds her tight until at last, she falls asleep.


End file.
